


Shadows of Death

by tiger_moran



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (Downey films), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Affection, BDSM, Blindfolds, Bondage, Caring, Cuddling & Snuggling, Discipline, Dom/sub, Dominance, Established Relationship, Love, M/M, Submission, Wax Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-15
Updated: 2017-03-16
Packaged: 2018-10-05 21:05:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10316951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiger_moran/pseuds/tiger_moran
Summary: Sequel to The Conundrum of Romance. With Moran feeling guilt over the death of one of the men who worked for them and for his behaviour towards Moriarty, the professor becomes increasingly concerned for his companion's well-being and seeks a way to put things between them back in order and restore the balance of their relationship and Moran's mental equilibrium.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Conundrum of Romance](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5434964) by [tiger_moran](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiger_moran/pseuds/tiger_moran). 



> Title from Die Form's 'Shadows of Death'
> 
> I'm a wounded animal  
> Close your eyes  
> Shadows, shadows  
> I'm so fragile in your hands  
> Close my eyes  
> Shadows, shadows

The professor awakens as the first sliver of daylight begins to insinuate its way into the room through a gap in the curtains. He is still curled around Moran’s lean, warm form, his face close against the back of Moran’s head. From his lover’s stillness and the slow rise and fall of his chest he seems still asleep, even peaceful. It is perhaps a peace that will not last long, Moriarty thinks.

 Moran awakens with a throbbing head and the professor still spooning around him. It is growing light in the bedroom and he winces against the relative brightness when he opens his eyes. Closing them again, he lifts a hand to his face and rubs his knuckles against his temples, trying to rub away some of the pain.

 “Good morning, Sebastian,” Moriarty says behind him.

 “Good morning… sir.” Moran hesitates only a moment over the ‘sir’, not from disrespect but more because despite the ache in his head he suddenly remembers all too keenly his own shabby behaviour and many of his words of the night before. ‘Professor’ is that bit less formal; a little more familiar than ‘sir’. Given what he did and said last night then, not being wholly certain if Moriarty has entirely forgiven him, to refer to him as ‘Professor’ at present would seem as wrong as referring to him as ‘James’ would.

 “Head sore, is it?” Moriarty enquires.

 “A little.”

 “Perhaps that will teach you not to get drunk and pick fights then.” Moriarty says this without malice.

 “Perhaps.” Moran puts his hand to his lip and fingers the still-tender cut there. “Sir, I…”

 “Don’t.” Moriarty’s voice is low but there is still a softness in his tone. “Don’t, Sebastian,” he says close to Moran’s ear.

 Moran opens his eyes and glances back at Moriarty briefly. “Don’t?”

 “You are going to apologise to me again and to berate yourself for your words of last night, and for your behaviour. I say now, simply, don’t.”

 “Why not?”

 “It is needless. We dealt with this last night.”

 Moran thinks of words uttered out of spite; of his violent urges to dominate the professor and to provoke him. “Did we truly?” He turns around to face the professor.

 “Do you think I would allow you to share my bed still if we had not?” Moriarty asks. He remembers keenly, perhaps even better than Moran, how roughly the colonel took him last night, his aggression barely constrained, yet constrained it was. He remembers too that he was the one to draw Moran back, signifying his willingness to proceed, when Moran had been about to withdraw, thinking Moriarty uninterested. Had Moran been genuinely violent towards him Moriarty could not have let Moran in his bed. He might even have thrown him out the house, at least for a time, but things had not even come close to reaching the stage where such drastic measures were necessary.

 He cups Moran’s cheek, running the pad of his thumb over the bruise over Moran’s eye, and he remembers how Moran sneered at him, inviting the professor to thrash him for his petulance. How easy it might have been to respond with the violence that Moran seemed to want, to punish his lover’s seeming mistrust and rebelliousness with a beating. How foolish it would have been to do so though, and he is relieved at instead how easy it was to refuse to rise to Moran’s taunting; to refuse to respond with physical abuse. “Besides…” Moriarty kisses Moran gently on his sore lips. “I was relieved that you came home. For a time I thought perhaps you might not return for days, or ever.”

 Moran narrows his eyes slightly at this. “You thought I’d run away?”

 “Not that you would run away, but that perhaps you would prefer to drown your sorrows in alcohol in any number of cheap pubs rather than return to me, or even…” Moriarty swallows.

 “Even what?”

 “I suppose there was a moment or two where I came to wonder if my next sight of you might not be of your body lying in a mortuary somewhere.”

 Moran manages a wry laugh at this. “I weren’t gonna off myself, sir.”

 “I don’t mean suicide, I mean… you drunk, mingling with some very violent, ruthless people; brawling with them, or even simply you walking out in front of a cab or suchlike in your drunken state. You came back merely with a black eye and a split lip but it could have ended very differently for you.”

 “I can look after myself.”

 “I am perfectly aware that you can, yet frequently you seem not to actually trouble to do so.” Moriarty says this tersely, his cheeks colouring slightly as realises the vehemence of his own tone. He turns his face away. “You must see, Sebastian,” he says more softly, “that I could never grieve over a man like Beyer. His death was unfortunate and an inconvenience, certainly, but I can summon no real sorrow over his loss. Aside from serving a useful purpose to me occasionally he meant nothing to me. You though…I would gladly sacrifice a hundred men like Beyer – a thousand even – if that meant I would save you.”

 Moran drops his gaze and for some seconds makes no other response to this. He knows that Moriarty is a man not prone to the use of hyperbole and though lies may easily trip off his tongue at times, it is with other people that he may use falsehoods to manipulate them. With Moran though he has been peculiarly truthful all along. Perhaps at first this was only because he needed Moran’s skills and thus he grasped simply that Moran had to be told the truth of certain matters for their working relationship to function. But, later, as the pair began to confide in each other about issues of a far more personal nature, even though there remained much that Moriarty concealed from Moran, still when the professor did speak to Moran he tended to tell the colonel the truth of the matter rather than resorting to subterfuge to placate him.

 For the professor to utter such words to him then, either this signals that he has changed his tactics suddenly or he truly means this.

 “Professor.” Now Moran’s cheeks flush and he buries his face against the professor’s shoulder in an attempt to conceal this. “James…” There is a second or two where he might make some direct response to Moriarty’s words, but he cannot. “Would you…” He lifts his face after a moment to look questioningly at Moriarty. “Would you think me foolish for wanting to go to Beyer’s funeral?”

 “No, I would not. You must do what you think apt.”

 “The money for his wife and little ones...”

 “Will be arranged.”

 “Right.” Moran's gaze drifts away again, and Moriarty suspects his thoughts are not good ones.

 “Sebastian,” he says. “You understand that your actions always have consequences.”

 “Sir?”

 “Your seeking to challenge me last night, to provoke me, to _dominate_ me, even...” Moriarty slips his hand under Moran's chin, along the edge of his jaw, turning Moran's face up. “There will of course be consequences because of that.” He sees the delicious puzzlement in his lover's eyes.

 “But you said... I need not apologise any more.”

 “And you need not. This is not about making amends, my dove, this is about setting things back in balance – ensuring that you properly remember your place once again. I very much enjoy allowing you to take control from time to time but you are well aware that that is only a temporary state of being.”

 Moran's eyes widen slightly, though only enough to indicate he is no longer quite so perplexed by the professor's words, no more. “You are speaking of...” He hesitates, unwittingly running the tip of his tongue across his lower lip. Is that hesitancy born of fear, or uncertain anticipation, Moriarty wonders. “Punishment?”

 “Not punishment, my boy. _Discipline_.”

 “Is there a difference?”

 “Of course.” Moriarty smiles.

 “What kind of discipline?”

 Moriarty trails the tip of his finger down Moran's neck, down his shoulder. “Whatever I see fit.”

 Moran dips his head down slightly. “When?” he asks.

 “Whenever I think it best.”

 “I am not to know anything then?”

 “Would you prefer to know?”

 Moran shakes his head slowly. “No sir. I trust you.”

 “You trust me,” Moriarty says softly, running his fingers back up Moran's shoulder, up his neck. He gently brushes the pad of his thumb across Moran's split lip. “But also...” He leans in closer, dropping his voice. “The thought of my dominance over you, of being entirely at my mercy, unknowing what form your discipline is to take up until the very moment I inflict it upon you, does that not thrill you, hmm?”

 Moran shivers, despite the relative warmth of the room. He is aware, even when such words are never spoken, that were he to refuse to participate in this then the professor would accept his refusal without a word of blame or mockery. But he knows also how much he would forever regret passing such an opportunity by.

 He looks Moriarty in the eyes again. “Yes sir,” he says.


	2. Chapter 2

Moran is restless that week, pacing more like a caged animal than ever in the times when he has no specific task to do. It is obvious to Moriarty that still a multitude of guilty thoughts play upon the colonel's mind, all of them unjustified – guilt over Beyer's death; guilt over letting the professor down; guilt perhaps over letting _himself_ down even. His black eye and split lip begin to heal but clearly there are wounds far deeper within him that cannot be mended so easily. It is fortunate then that Moriarty knows what Moran needs. It is only a matter of arranging a few things so that he can make this happen. There are other things that must be dealt with of course, seeking out a probable traitor for one, but those can wait. First matters much closer to home must be set right.

Moran returns from Beyer's funeral seeming downcast, though perhaps that is to be expected for such a sombre occasion. Aside from the fading bruise below his eye Moran looks wonderfully dapper, Moriarty thinks, but going by the expression on his face others might think Willy Beyer was some manner of intimate friend, so heavily has his death weighed upon Moran.

“How did it go?” Moriarty enquires as Moran steps into the hallway and removes his hat.

Moran shrugs. “Perfectly well, as funerals go. At least, nobody mucked up their words or dropped the coffin or something.” He says nothing of Beyer's wife's sobs or how she glared at him, grim-faced and tight-lipped, clearly mistrustful of him even though she does not know the truth of what Moran got her husband involved in. Or his glimpse of the little kiddies, now fatherless, still too young to fully comprehend the true nature of death but knowing something was very much not right. True, Beyer was very far from being a perfect father and financially at least his family _will_ likely now be far better off. Even so...

He peels off his gloves before glancing behind Moriarty, to the cases neatly stacked there. “You off somewhere?”

“Not just me. Us.”

Moran narrows his eyes slightly. “Business?”

“No.”

Moran grimaces slightly. “It hardly seems right swanning off on some pleasure trip just after buryin' one of our men.”

“It is not simply a 'pleasure trip' either.”

Moran rubs the back of his neck, pondering this. “You never mentioned anything about this before.”

“I am mentioning it to you now.” Moriarty takes a step towards him, nudging Moran back against the bannisters of the stairs. “I did not wish for you to have too much time to think about it.”

Moran looks up at him questioningly. “What, exactly?”

Moriarty puts his head close to Moran's, his lips nearly touching Moran's ear. “Your discipline,” he whispers. He feels Moran shiver slightly at the touch of the warm breath against his skin, then the colonel swallows thickly.

“Where are we going?” Moran asks finally.

“Somewhere where we may have a great deal more privacy.”

“I suppose I should... ah... pack then?” Moran's voice quavers as the professor presses his leg briefly between his companion's thighs.

“Indeed.” Moriarty backs away smartly, smirking to himself. “Pack for a couple of a days, although... perhaps you will not be requiring many clothes for at least a portion of our time away.” He winks before he turns away.

Moran, somewhat flustered by this development, runs his hands through his hair, taking a deep breath to try to compose himself. “I'll, er, go and pack then,” he says.

~

Moran's life these days consists of carrying out various jobs for Moriarty, sometimes playing a key role in the execution of some of the professor's schemes (or indeed, from time to time, simply in _executions_ ), often simply carrying out errands for him, such as going to post letters or purchase tickets, for the opera, for instance, or for various modes of transport. It is rare then for him to be getting on a train with the professor without knowing precisely where they are headed. Out into the Kent countryside, he believes by now, but he has no idea of their specific destination. He declines to ask anything more about it though, certain that Moriarty will not answer such questions. It hardly matters anyway. He is with the professor and that is the main thing.

Whilst waiting for the remaining passengers to board, Moran glances out of the carriage window as a woman in a lilac dress strolls past. Upon her head is a rather macabre hat with two real once live but now very much dead and stuffed doves perched upon it.

“Why the hell is that fashionable?” Moran queries. “Sticking dead birds on hats and draping dead foxes around your shoulders and that.”

Moriarty looks up from his newspaper and follows his companion's gaze, catching sight of the dead doves as the woman heads towards her carriage. He presses his lips together tightly in an expression of disgust.

“Yet if I was to wander about with a tiger pelt slung around my shoulders I'd get called uncivilised,” Moran says scathingly.

Moriarty looks back at his paper. “There are different rules for different people, my boy,” he remarks. “This is why I rarely trouble myself over what is considered legal, or proper, or even morally acceptable by society. Their rules are far too arbitrary.”

Moran turns away from the window, looking across at the professor. “Yet you have morals,” he says, and thinks of Beyer's little children – left fatherless, yes, but also financially provided for by Moriarty, a benefactor they will never learn the true identity of.

A smile flickers across Moriarty's face, though he does not look up from his paper this time. “Of course. I am not a beast, Moran. I simply make my own rules and do not allow society – not its people, not its legal system, not its religions – to dictate to me how I am supposed to think or feel or act.”

Moran contemplates this for a few seconds. “What we do together, has that never troubled you, from a moral standpoint?”

“Which portion of what we do together, precisely, are you referring to?” Moriarty queries nonchalantly. “Our, ah, business dealings, or our private acts?”

Moran laughs softly, the first time Moriarty has seem him appear so amused since before Beyer's death. “Both, I s'pose. But I was thinking more the private portion.”

“No,” Moriarty says simply. He turns over the page of his newspaper. “I have never been troubled by the supposed immorality of that.”

“And what about the _business_ side?” Moran enquires, his curiosity further stirred. Although he certainly has never noticed Moriarty appearing to be overly vexed by the successful completion of any of his schemes. “That don't trouble you either, morally speaking?”

“Morally speaking,” Moriarty says, his gaze still resting on the paper, “no.”

Such seeming amorality might be intimidating to others, who do not know the professor as the colonel does; who are ignorant of the myriad complex aspects even of Moriarty's criminal nature. Another man might be suspicious also of the professor's motives for taking him out to some secret, _private_ location, fearing maybe that he is being led there merely to be shot and buried in some anonymous grave. But Moran only finds such statements amusing and his trust in the professor remains firm. He leans back in his seat and glances out of the window as the train begins to move off.

Moriarty glances up at him briefly over the paper. He too seems amused still, perhaps by Moran's own peculiar mix of morality and immorality or perhaps more by the colonel's feigned nonchalance as he tries to discern where precisely they are going and what will happen when they get there.

“I _could_ tell you what I intend to do to you,” he remarks. “If you desperately wish to know.”

For a moment Moran almost looks tempted by the offer. But he shakes his head. “No sir, I'll wait.”

Moriarty smiles. “Good boy,” he says.

~

The cottage is small, basic but comfortable enough, and somewhat remote, being accessible along a dirt track which they had been driven down in a trap drawn by a grey farm cob. Moran had sat quietly in the back, watching the track behind them, whilst Moriarty had chatted amiably enough with the driver, who was apparently the youngest son of the farmer who owned the neighbouring farm. From what Moran could gather of the conversation, the farming family were used to supplementing their income by renting the former labourer's cottage out to occasional holidaymakers who came seeking a little fresh country air. Moran is not convinced that the air, which seems currently to smell of manure, is that much fresher than that in London, but he is not going to argue the point.

It appears that the food also will be fairly basic but satisfactory enough. Various supplies have been laid in for them and the young lad, whilst helping carry their bags inside, promises that he will return later with a pot of beef stew for their supper, and again in the morning with fresh supplies such as milk and bread.

After the boy has been tipped well and is driving away down the track again, Moran looks around the small kitchen before wandering into the next room, which serves as a sitting room with a small fireplace but also contains a tin bath presently propped up in the corner. Beyond that is the only bedroom, possessing a bed large enough for two people and a few other mismatched items of furniture. Moran wonders if anyone thinks it suspicious that these two gentlemen are willing to share a bed in a small cottage instead of taking separate rooms in an inn, but perhaps they merely think it one of the queer idiosyncrasies of those rich city folk who come out to the country determined to have the full rustic experience.

“We're definitely not going to be disturbed here?” he queries, sitting on the edge of the bed to test the mattress. It seems not to have a great deal of give to it.

“Our privacy is assured.” Moriarty carries one of his cases into the bedroom and sets it down on the floor. “We are an ample distance away from the farmhouse and other farm buildings, and I am informed that several of the guests who come to stay here do so in order to write or to paint and ask not to be disturbed while they are doing so. The farmer's family are used to coming here during their guests' stay only to bring supplies, if such supplies are requested.”

“And why are we here then?” Moran asks with a grin. “To write, or to paint?”

“Perhaps you _might_ like to write something while we are here,” Moriarty answers. “Some other thrilling story of tracking tigers through the forests of India, or perhaps a detailed account of your past sexual exploits. I believe there is quite a thriving underground market for the latter sort of text.”

Moran stares at him a moment, uncertain if he is being teased or if Moriarty is in earnest. Neither would surprise him, nor does the fact that the professor, a man whose sexual partners can be counted on a single hand and has little interest in sex beyond that which he has with Moran, even knows of a market for such erotic texts. The strange coy little half-smile on Moriarty's face though gives little away.

“Maybe,” Moran says. “When we have, ah... dealt with other matters.”

“Indeed.” There is a flicker of something on Moriarty's face – a fleeting knowing smile perhaps – but only Moran would notice it. To anyone else he would likely still seem to be the ascetic, even somewhat boring mathematics professor. “If you would be so kind as to bring the rest of our cases into the bedroom, then perhaps after that we shall see about those _other matters_.”

 


	3. Chapter 3

“Remove your clothes.” The command is issued softly but in such a precise tone that it cannot be mistaken for anything but an order.

Lowering his gaze, Moran begins to unbutton his shirt.

Moriarty seats himself in the wicker chair to the side of the room, crossing one leg over the other as he watches Moran undress in the flickering candlelight.

The colonel is not hurried in his movements, not slow enough to give any indication of reluctance but taking care both in the removal and setting aside of his items of his clothing, as he should be. There is no need to rush things here and the professor would not approve of him damaging his clothing in unnecessary haste, so he places his boots neatly together and folds his clothing before placing the items atop a somewhat rickety chest of drawers.

When Moran is stark naked at last, Moriarty runs a cool, appraising look over his lover's body, not lingering on any particular part until his gaze comes back up to Moran's face.

“Come here,” he says.

Moran steps towards him without hesitating, still with his head bowed, though he darts his gaze up to regard the professor for a second or two.

“Kneel.” Moriarty puts a hand on Moran's shoulder even as he utters the instruction, pressing him to kneel down onto a rag rug at the foot of the chair. For a few seconds Moriarty runs his hand along Moran's shoulder, up his neck, stroking his cheek, but he drops his hand as he stands up. “Close your eyes,” he says, so very quietly but perfectly clear still. The change in position puts his groin area more or less level with Moran's face and so incredibly close to him. Undeniably erotic, despite Moriarty still remaining clothed, despite Moran's eyes remaining closed, and the slight quickening of Moran's breathing is highly suggestive that he would _love_ to unbutton Moriarty's trousers and pleasure him with his mouth. But that is not what the professor has in mind. Instead as he shifts around to stand behind the colonel, he removes a length of fabric, dark and thick but soft, from his jacket pocket. Grasping its ends by both hands he slips it down over Moran's head, across his eyes.

Moran flinches, just barely, at the touch of the fabric, but stills himself as he grasps quickly what is happening. Moriarty ties the blindfold securely in place, knotting its ends round the back of Moran's head, ensuring it is tight enough to remain secure but not _too_ tight, and for a few moments whilst he removes his own jacket and rolls up his sleeves to the elbows he simply watches Moran again.

There is tension in the colonel's body, in his lean, strong muscles; in his partly clenched hands, though these rest by his sides and he makes no move to try to touch or remove the blindfold. He is uneasy, as any animal normally so reliant upon its sight would be, at the sudden cutting off of this sense. When Moriarty touches him lightly upon the shoulder he twitches slightly again, as a horse might twitch to brush off a fly, indicating just how tightly wound up he is. But a few more seconds, a few more light caresses of his cheek, and Moriarty sees the tension ebbing from his companion; he sees Moran's complete surrender to him. There in the darkness that the professor has imposed on him, Moran exists in a world of Moriarty's complete control, a world of physical sensations only; a world where he need not think for himself any more.

When Moriarty bids him rise, Moran rises. When Moriarty moves him towards the bed, Moran moves. When Moriarty binds his wrists to the bedposts with soft ropes, Moran is unresisting. The professor watches this all the while, observing, monitoring, both curiously detached and profoundly attached all at once, as he ties Moran's ankles to the bottom bedposts. He sees Moran's fingers curl around the ropes that tie his wrists, not to try to undo them or break them but simply to feel, to test their strength and security, brushing his fingers along the twisted fibres.

“My dearest Moran,” Moriarty says as he pulls his bag out from underneath the bed and unbuckles it. “How beautiful you look laid out there for me.”

Moran says nothing – senses that he does not need to say anything; that nothing is required of him at this time save for his submission; that Moriarty is perfectly in control here. He hears the sounds – a couple of somewhat hollow sounding clinks as several items apparently knock together inside the bag; a dull, soft thud as something is set down upon the bedside table; the _scritch_ of a match being lit.

Moriarty lights the first of the thick candles he has set into the silver candelabra with the match but after that he blows out the match and uses that first candle to ignite the others. Still he has spare candles in the bag, the cause of several further clinks and chinks as they nudge together as he sets the bag back down on the floor. But the ones he has burning should be enough, he thinks.

The mattress dips and the bed frame creaks slightly as he sits down on the edge of the bed next to Moran. Moran turns his head towards the professor, as if to look at him, but Moriarty knows perfectly well that the blindfold does not allow Moran to see him. At the most all that the colonel can make out, he suspects, is the faintest glow from the single candle Moriarty now clasps carefully in his right hand.

“Your body always fascinates me, my dove,” he tells Moran, watching the quavering candlelight play over the plains and dips and hollows of Moran's naked body. “The history of your life worn upon your skin.” Regarding the regimental tattoo on Moran's arm and the scars, some newer and starker, some nearly faded. He can hear Moran's breathing more distinctly now and he hears the catch in the colonel's breath as he leans over to trail his left hand down Moran's hip, down his thigh. “Of course,” Moriarty says, holding the candle above Moran's abdomen, “in many ways still your skin is also very much a blank canvas upon which I may create a masterpiece.” And he tips the candle over just enough to let a few droplets of wax plop onto Moran's skin.

“Professor!” Moran hisses, a startled cry, though not quite of pain.

Moriarty watches him still, patiently observing, holding the candle upright again. He watches the change in Moran, the momentary tension as Moran pulls briefly against the ropes tying his arms, then him letting this go. From fear to relief in a few seconds, as Moran remembers that he does not have to think any more now; that the professor will think for both of them. In times like this, when he no longer has to think for himself, when he is bound and blindfolded and terrifyingly vulnerable he feels freer than he ever does elsewhere, even _safe_. He is safe here, at Moriarty's mercy.

When Moriarty drips the molten wax upon his skin again this time the candle is closer, the wax hotter. Inevitably Moran flinches at this and there is a degree more pain in the sound he makes, but he makes no protest and his cry is laced with pleasure also.

“Not what you expected, pet?” Moriarty queries, moving the candle carefully across Moran's chest, watching the droplets land, still molten but soon solidifying, leaving a distinct trail that loops across his lover's skin. “Molten wax is extremely interesting, I thought,” the professor remarks, over Moran's low moans of pain and pleasure. “It may mark for a time but without causing any lasting damage when applied correctly. _There_.” He draws the candle back temporarily, sitting back slightly to admire his handiwork. “If only you could see it, Sebastian, how I have marked your skin with my initials, to remind you that I _own_ you.” Indeed across Moran's chest now is written, in solid white droplets of wax, a J, seguing into a looping letter M. The wax will come off, the faint red marks beneath it will fade shortly, but the sentiment will always remain: he owns Moran, something he places such emphasis on not out of spite but because he is keenly aware of how much this fact excites his lover.

“How sensitive you are, my boy,” he remarks as he tips more molten wax across Moran's abdomen, noting how he tugs at the restraints again as the droplets get ever lower, ever closer towards his hardening cock. “I wonder which part of your body would be the most sensitive, hmm?” Careful to hold the candle steady, he leans over, his head close to Moran's chest. Slowly, deliberately, he runs the tip of his tongue around Moran's right nipple. “This, perhaps?” he asks, drawing back and placing the candle over where his head had been a few seconds earlier. He tilts the candle over, dripping liquid wax over the nipple and drawing a stream of involuntary curses from Moran's lips.

The colonel writhes in his restraints but his prick is fully hard now. Moran does not, Moriarty is aware, respond favourably only to pain. What he craves, what he _needs_ , is that little bit of pain mingled in with the pleasure, dealt out by someone (perhaps the sole person in the world) whom he trusts so completely, and pain inflicted not with callousness or cruelty or even simply indifference but with genuine affection. Not punishment, Moriarty had said, and that was perfectly true. Disciplining Moran is something else – reminding Moran of his place, yes, but also properly re-establishing the balance between them, where Moriarty dominates and Moran is entirely happy being his obedient servant. There is something else though too, something that Moran would find difficult to express even if he were currently capable of coherent thought – his need, deep down, to be dominated and controlled and hurt (just a little) by the man he adores in order to keep his darkest most self-destructive impulses at bay; to make him feel, ultimately, calmer. These games perhaps then do not reset only the balance between them but also the balance of Moran's mind.

Moriarty believes absolutely, as does Moran, though he would likely never admit to it, that if he had not met Moran when he did then the colonel would be long dead by now, having killed himself intentionally or - far more likely perhaps - accidentally as he spiralled out of control upon being forced to leave the army, maybe by drinking himself to death, maybe by being killed in some drunken brawl, maybe by even being hanged for murder.

That they found each other when they did, moreover that they turned out to fit together so beautifully, was a happy event indeed. Moriarty too had never before felt able to give free rein to his darker impulses, those that sometimes appear to connect to sex but only perhaps at some queer tangent. Had those desires been purely sexual Moriarty might have found it far easier to procure a partner before Moran, one who enjoyed being taken roughly. But his lack of actual sexual attraction towards anyone seemed only to complicate matters, making it harder to articulate precisely what it was he actually wished to do. He had also found the idea of simply paying someone to submit to whatever he wanted extremely distasteful. But when Moran began to make his feelings for the professor clear, Moriarty realised that here was a man with whom he could not only sate his occasional vague sexual urges but also his other desires, those to thoroughly dominate and control a partner and to do so in safety, free from fear of condemnation or blackmail; secure also in the knowledge that this partner was submitting to him willingly. Moriarty still has his occasional moments of insecurity where he fears that sometimes Moran submits to him because he feels that he must, but in his more rational moments he knows that that is not the case. Moran submits to him because of his own innermost desires and needs, and because he trusts the professor absolutely, and that knowledge is always strangely intoxicating. To have such control over another man...

Moriarty is not religious; does not want to be worshipped, god-like, by sycophants. But to wield this power over another, where his words are akin to law; where his actions could destroy Moran, if he chose, and where he knows Moran would do almost anything for him, he only need tell him to do it, perhaps this is a glimpse at what divinity feels like. Sex and anything even remotely connected to it is not somehow mystical or deeply profound to the professor, but when Moran whimpers his name or moans in mingled pain and pleasure, there is something almost magical about that. Nor does Moriarty truly understand romantic love, but there is a sense of warmth that floods through him when he sees Moran like this, trusting the professor so completely with his safety and well-being as well as with his pleasure.

Moriarty is perhaps more aware than many men that destroying a man's reputation, or taking everything away from him or even killing him (or, at least, causing him to be killed) can provide its own sense of power, perhaps even making him feel almost god-like then, in some ways. But this is very different, because it is warm, not cool; because also he is fully devoted to preserving Moran's physical and emotional security, as well as his trust in him. Because too this is something that lasts, unlike his brief moments of satisfaction at a job well done. This transcends their brief games, twining through their everyday lives, even through some of their most mundane activities, because of the trust that has been engendered by such games. Because of other, more nebulous feelings that are stirred within Moriarty also.

He waits patiently, both for a little more molten wax to pool around the base of the wick, and for Moran's curses to subside into panting. The colonel's fingers are curled around the ropes again, tense for a moment, then releasing.

“How about this one?” Moriarty asks, and holds the candle even lower against Moran's left nipple before tilting it.

Moran cries out again, no words this time, only a strangled cry as he bucks up against his restraints. The wax feels so hot, searing the sensitive point of flesh as if it were the flame itself that had been applied, but then in this state he is purely a creature of physical sensations, his sight cut off but his other senses heightened. Moriarty knows perfectly well that the wax, applied at that distance, may mark but will not burn deeply. He has spent several hours secreted away in his study with a supply of candles, carefully testing them out upon his own bare skin.

Now he looks down at Moran, his chest heaving beneath the spots and trickles and pools of cooled wax. “Where shall I try next, Sebastian?” he muses. “Perhaps...” He places his hand, the palm dry but warm, against Moran's hip. Moran moans at the touch but does not struggle. “Here?” Holding the candle above Moran's inner thigh, tipping it ever so carefully, letting a few drops fall onto the sensitive skin there.

Moran curses again before panting hard. “Sir,” he says when his curses subside. “Sir... please.” But what he is pleading for precisely he would be entirely unable to grasp or to express. It is left for Moriarty to discern what Moran wants, _needs_ , at this time.

“Better, but perhaps, not _quite_ enough,” Moriarty remarks. “Perhaps...” He sets this candle back in its holder, reaching instead to take two of the others. The candles, he thinks, with their pools of liquid wax, are much like Moran now, balanced so precariously close to the edge so that the slightest shift will cause them - him - to tip over the edge.

Moriarty holds the candles above Moran's cock and, very carefully, tips them.

“James, James, James!” Moran cries as liquid wax spatters his prick, running down it, burning hot but cooling even as it trickles down. His words are lost to a choked cry though, almost sobbing as Moriarty sets the candles aside and leans over Moran.

Moriarty's face is close to Moran's as he reaches down, wrapping his hand around Moran's length. The wax that coats it is warm, not hot, but almost solid, pieces of it cracking off as Moriarty strokes him. “Sebastian,” he says softly, “let go now.” And Moran does, arching his back, his release spattering his abdomen alongside the trickles and spots of cooled wax there before he collapses back onto the bed.

Moran's chest still heaves as Moriarty gently strokes his face again. Still he is panting even as Moriarty kisses him on the mouth.

“My dove, my loyal boy,” Moriarty murmurs to him between kisses. He pulls the blindfold off and Moran looks at him, his gaze unfocused, but there is a smile on his face.

“Professor,” he says. Still he seems breathless and the dreamy smile on his face and the slightly glazed look in his eyes almost give him the appearance of a drug user after taking a shot.

Moriarty sits up and unties the ropes that bind Moran before drawing the colonel close to him, slipping his arm around him, letting Moran rest his head against the professor's chest. Soon they will need to clean up but it can wait a few minutes until Moran is more coherent.

Moran nestles contentedly against Moriarty, still looking pleasantly dazed as he glances up at him. “You want me to... to bring you off too?” he asks.

“No, I'm perfectly all right as I am.”

“But it don't seem fair, I spend but you often don't.”

“I don't need to.”

“But don't you _want_ to?”

Moriarty smiles. “Not now,” he assures Moran, for their games are not only about Moran's pleasure. Moriarty gets his own satisfaction from them, even if not always physically. Though he understands perfectly well that Moran, with his much stronger libido, would usually consider their games unsatisfactory without reaching orgasm, for Moriarty it is a different matter. Sometimes indeed he does climax himself, occasionally even when he has not expected to do so, but not always, and he does not consider it important that he do so every time. “I promise you, pet, even if I do not show it in the same manner as you, I get just as much pleasure from our little games as you do.”

At length he snags a clean rag from the bedside table and wipes some of the mess from Moran's stomach.

“We'd best clean up properly,” Moran remarks finally, shifting to the edge of the bed.

He is, he realises, lying atop an old blanket that Moriarty has apparently placed beneath him to protect the bed-covers underneath. There are a few small splatters of wax upon it but upon lifting one edge he ascertains that no wax has managed to penetrate through to the covers below. As he stands up though the hardened wax on his skin cracks and several fragments of it fall to the floor.

“There is a dustpan and brush in the corner,” Moriarty informs him, nodding towards the items in question.

“You are prepared for everything,” Moran observes with a laugh.

“Of course.”

Deciding it will be easier to sweep the pieces of wax up off the floor than trying to pick them all off his skin, he begins to brush more of the wax away, when he catches sight of his reflection in the speckled mirror propped against the wall. The letters J and M are still there, the wax cracked and peeling away, but the vaguest impression of them remains still discernible upon his skin. “Property of James Moriarty,” he says quietly, grinning.

Moriarty, slipping over to stand behind Moran, rests his chin upon Moran's shoulder. He slides his hand around Moran's hip and lets it rest there. “I am still contemplating placing a more permanent mark upon you,” he remarks almost idly. “Perhaps... here.” He trails his fingertips across to Moran's inner thigh.

Moran shivers slightly as he regards their reflection. The professor behind him, clothed still, looking composed and controlled; himself at the fore, naked, indecent. Moriarty is clearly the master here, radiating a sense of quiet but incontrovertible power, but Moran is no weakling either, no toadying lackey too frightened to ever say no to the professor's demands. He meets Moriarty's gaze in their mirror image. “I'd like that,” he says, catching hold of the professor's hand. Lifting it to his lips, he kisses the backs of the knuckles.

Over his shoulder Moriarty smiles, possessive and pleased. “Very well, my dove,” he says. “Something for another time then. For now, finish cleaning yourself up.” He withdraws from the colonel to sit upon the edge of the bed. There he plucks up the blanket and begins to neatly fold it up.

Moran brushes a few more fragments of wax to the floor. “I'm gonna have to shave this to get it all out,” he grumbles, dragging his fingers through his pubic hair. The professor, he notes, looks rather amused about this prospect.

“I am told some men like being shaved down there,” Moriarty remarks nonchalantly. “I believe that they feel that it makes their manhood appear larger.”

Moran turns to regard him, eyes narrowed slightly in contemplation. “D'you think it actually would?”

“Perhaps.” Setting the folded up blanket aside, Moriarty raises his eyebrows. “Marginally.”

“Hmm.” Sounding unconvinced by this, Moran kneels to sweep the scattered pieces of wax into the dustpan.

Moriarty watches him idly for a moment, before growing bored of this. “Leave it, for now,” he instructs. “Come here.”

Moran grins as he stands up again. “My mother would be ashamed of me, leaving a job half-finished,” he remarks. He squints slightly as he contemplates what he has just said. “Reckon she might be ashamed of me for quite a lot of other things I've done an' all.”

“Yet she would be proud of you in other ways,” Moriarty tells him. He pushes himself up the bed to sit against the pillows. “Come on.” He pats the space beside him and Moran lies beside him, snuggling up against the professor's side.

They lie like this in comfortable silence for a few minutes, before Moran speaks again. “Things are back in balance now, are they?”

“I think so.” Moriarty snuggles deeper into the pillows. “Do you not agree?”

Moran chuckles. “No, I reckon they are, only...”

“Only what?”

“The fact remains still someone betrayed us; someone stabbed us in the back and caused Beyer to get killed. We have yet to sort that.”

Moriarty closes his eyes, appearing perfectly unconcerned by this. “That can also be dealt with at another time.”

“It don't seem to bother you much that someone betrayed us,” Moran remarks. He does not raise his voice, indeed he sounds perfectly calm still. But it perplexes him still how the professor seems so indifferent, particularly when there have been times in the past when one of Moriarty's schemes has been foiled and the professor has sunk into a state of melancholy as a result. “How can you seem to care so little for that?”

“Because, my dearest Moran.” Moriarty opens his eyes again to glance meaningfully down at his companion. “I recognised that there were far more important things that required my immediate attention.”

Moran looks up at him for a few seconds. “You mean... me?”

“Yes. You blame yourself far too easily when things go wrong. You are not responsible for _everything_ , Sebastian. Anyway, I have absolute faith in your ability to seek out our traitor and deal with him appropriately.”

“I will, sir,” Moran says, almost fiercely. “I will.” A pledge, a promise, and Moriarty does not doubt Moran's word at all.

“However...” He slides his arm around Moran's shoulders, drawing him closer. “That can wait until we return home. We have tonight and tomorrow to ourselves still; we should make good use of this time.”

“Good use how?” Moran queries. “Shall I write up that account of past sexual exploits after all?” He laughs as he nuzzles against Moriarty's neck, and closes his eyes.

“Perhaps, tomorrow. But this will suffice for now, and then supper in a little while.”

Moran opens his eyes again and sits up slightly. “Maybe we should clean up properly and I should get dressed then, if that lad's coming to bring our supper. We can't face him looking so indecent.”

“ _I_ look perfectly decent,” Moriarty reminds him with a smile. “At least, decent enough to meet a farmer's boy simply delivering our supper. But yes, you can clean yourself up and get dressed, in a few minutes. No need to rush.”

Since Moriarty seems disinclined to hurry to prepare for their supper, Moran closes his eyes and settles back into the crook of the professor's arm again. “No,” he says, in agreement. “No need to rush.”


End file.
